


when your seams have come unknitted

by lady_mab



Series: inside every open eye [3]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, M/M, Side Story, canon-typical lonely, orpheus ain't go noTHING on jarchivist sims
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-05 23:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25593436
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: Martin finds himself standing on a familiar shore.The cold is almost instantaneous, leeching the warmth from the cord wrapped around one hand. The cord trails off into the fog, getting swallowed up by the thick white unknown of this place, but it's still solid.He gives it a tug and feels resistance on the other end."Hold on, Jon," he says, breath escaping him in a puff of fog. He feels like he should say something else, something romantic or heroic, but in the end he just starts walking.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: inside every open eye [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1773814
Comments: 7
Kudos: 32





	when your seams have come unknitted

**Author's Note:**

> I wake and hear you calling  
> And up those cliffs I climb  
> And I find you with a thimble weeping  
> May I, I ask, may I?  
> And you gently gift it to me  
> Cos you've no clue how to sew  
> And I know the kindest thing  
> I pray to god it's the kindest thing  
> I know the kindest thing  
> Is to never leave you alone  
> \- The Amazing Devil's "[The Rockrose and the Thistle](https://theamazingdevil.bandcamp.com/track/the-rockrose-and-the-thistle)"
> 
> * * *
> 
> (takes place between chapters 15 and 16 of '[tiny cracks of light](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987067/chapters/60496939)', but can be read out of context)

_Archivist, the scene you see is thus:_ In the center of a dark lake, Sasha closes her eyes. She holds Martin’s hands firmly in her own. To either side, Basira and Georgie keep their hands on Sasha’s shoulders and Martin’s forearms. Around them stand Daisy, Tim, and Melanie — on guard for anything that might approach. 

In the center of this group, Martin breathes steadily in time with the waves against a distant, unseen shore. 

_Come on, Jon_ , she thinks as she wraps the tangled mess of cords connecting all these people to one man, to _you_ , around her fingers. _We’ve got work to do._

She gives a mighty tug, and suddenly, everything _shifts_. 

* * *

_Archivist, the scene you see is thus:_ In the center of a different lake, the man you love stands with water up to his hips. He can’t remember, exactly, how he got there. 

“I was walking,” he says, because he knows that much. “I was… Where was I going?” 

He glances over his shoulder, as if he will see the answer behind him. 

All he sees is fog, thick and heavy. If he squints, tries really hard, he can see the hint of a shore — the idea of one, really, sketched in faint pencil against the backdrop of pale gray. 

It gives him a headache, so he stops. 

This place is heavy, the atmosphere of it pushing down on his shoulders. The water pulls at his waist, catching between his legs, threatening to draw him under. Promising a soft, cool, weightless embrace. 

_Perhaps_ , he thinks, _I’ll wait here awhile_. 

You want to beg for him to keep moving, that there is something waiting for him, that _you’re_ waiting for him, but you don’t have lungs to breathe or a mouth to speak — only sharp and painful wants. 

He looks down and, floating on the surface of the lake, he sees a single glint of gold. 

Curious about this hint of color, he plucks the thread from the water to study it. 

It warms his fingers, like sunshine through high windows, like a rare smile, like the idle daydream of a kiss. It’s enough to pierce through the fog and his breath catches in a familiar way and his lips form a single name, but it’s enough. 

“Jon…?” he asks, and suddenly, everything _shifts_. 

* * *

Jon awakes with a start, lurching upright with a deep inhale. He immediately rolls onto his side, coughing up a dark, brackish water. 

"Martin?" he wheezes, looking around. He coughs again and spits out more water. "Martin, where are you?" 

He had been there. Jon _knows_ that Martin had been there. Hadn't he? 

No, wait. Jon asked him to come to the lake because… Why? The Eye hadn't wanted that, it knew that Martin would say no, but Jon asked anyway. Another stupid, desperate attempt to get Martin to intervene when Jon knew he couldn't. 

The Watcher had said as much. He told Jon that he would have to do this to stop… 

What had he been trying to stop? 

Someone had been at the lake. It wasn't Martin, it was… someone else. When he tries to remember, the Eye remains silent. Perhaps it's angry at him for what he did. 

Jon pushes himself uneasily to his feet and looks around. He's on the shore of a different lake than the one he remembers first stepping into. That one had been dark, cold in a different way. 

This one is pale with fog and a distant, uncaring sun that provides enough light to make it obvious how _large_ this place is. 

"Martin?" he tries again, and his voice only echoes back to him. 

But there is a soft fluttering warmth in his chest, and when he looks, a single golden, gossamer thread stretches out into the fog. 

Jon covers it with his hand and feels it beat in time with his heart. "Alright," he says, understanding. "I'll find you." 

He begins to walk, keeping the susurrus of the waves to his left. Always on his left, his bare feet squelching in the sand, close enough that the water teases at his heels, but it's not strong enough to knock him off course. 

He knows where he is going. 

He doesn't know how long he walks, because the scenery of the place doesn't change. The waves roll in, pull out, roll in, and when they try to lure him deeper in, he adjusts his course. The first time it happens, he looks over his shoulder to see his path steadily veering left into the water, as the waves eagerly wash away the memory of his passage.

He doesn't look back, after that. 

Instead, Jon keeps his hand over his heart, and uses the thread as a compass as best he can in this place. 

Eventually, a shape starts to form, made out of the shadows of the fog. That's how Jon knows it's not his Martin, as much as the thing looks like him. His heart does a frantic stutter at this ghostly image, and a single thought runs through his head as he approaches. 

_I was too late._

But he knows, with certainty, that it isn't his Martin. This place just wants him to believe it is. 

There is a coiled gold thread in the chest of the phantom Martin. Its glow is muted through the fog, but it calls to Jon, and he starts to reach for it without thinking. 

" _Do you remember when we first met?_ " Martina asks. His voice reverberates through this place, the memory of words spoken, or an errant thought escaping the privacy of his head. " _You hated me._ " 

"I'm afraid I did not make a good first impression," Jon says. 

" _You were valid for that hatred. I'm an incompetent mess._ "

He winces at the truth of it. "I don't think that any more." It's a weak excuse, but he's not certain if an apology would make it better. 

Martin's gives a familiar huff of self-deprecating laughter, and Jon's gut wrenches at the sound. " _Oh? And what do you think now?_ " He gestures to their surroundings. " _Are you enjoying my domain?_ " 

"It's not yours." 

" _It is. It is! The one thing I can control, and it's this._ " His eyes are the same stormy gray as the water, and they can't seem to focus on anything. " _Turn around, Jon. There's nothing for you here._ " 

"There is," Jon says, and this time, he doesn't stop himself as he reaches for the golden thread. 

* * *

_Archivist, are you sure you want to see this?_

You do. You need to. You want to know everything about this man, about why he thought you were worthy of love. 

You want him to know that you love him, too. 

_Very well, Archivist. The scene you see is thus:_

* * *

Martin is late. 

Is he late? 

Can he be late if he actually _lives_ here? 

Well, Martin is anxious, and he thinks he might be late, so he's not really paying attention to where he is going except that he knows that this is where Tim told him to go and—

He runs headlong into someone. 

That someone gives a weak gasp as they topple backwards under the force of Martin's frantic rush. 

"Oh," Martin moans, having caught himself on one of the shelves. The victim is such a slight and frail man that he's honestly surprised that the man didn't just _break_. "Oh, I'm so sorry, let me—" 

"No," the man says from his spot on the floor. He starts to gather his books and papers back together. "I'm quite alright without your assistance, thank you." He's wearing the robes of the Archives, and he seems to be around the same age as the other assistants, but wait, didn't Tim say there were only the three of them? 

Which means that—

"You're the Head Archivist?" Martin squeaks, and immediately snaps his mouth shut to stop another embarrassing noise from making its way free. 

The man's eyes are dark and earthy and they would be quite pleasant to look at if they weren't currently glaring up at him. "Yes?" 

He struggles for a moment — a very long moment, according to the deepening frown on the Head Archivist's face — before finally answering. "I'm Martin. One of your assistants." 

This doesn't seem to improve anything, but at the very least, it doesn't get worse. "Ah. The Watcher mentioned you." 

"He did?" Another squeaked out question, damn it. 

The Archivist looks away, and that helps ease the tension a little. "Only that he anticipated you would need some time to get things sorted before you started work officially." He finishes gathering his papers and rises to his feet. He's not that tall, probably around the same height as Sasha, but if that's an average sort of height or a small one, Martin isn't too sure — considering that he himself is taller than Tim. "Is it?" 

"Is what?" Martin asks and feels stupid for the question. 

"Sorted." 

"I—" He's still not too sure what the Head Archivist is getting at, because he might have gotten lost in the conversation at some point. Something about needing time? Oh, _that_. "Yes?" 

Will it ever really be sorted? Well, perhaps from his mother's point of view, him leaving was enough to make it sorted. 

The Head Archivist purses his lips and furrows his brow, then shakes his head. "Fine. That's… Fine." It doesn't sound fine, but it also doesn't sound like an invitation for Martin to clarify. 

After a moment, the Head Archivist's confusion shifts back to annoyance and he nods his head in the direction of the stacks. "There is some work laid out that needs sorting. See to it." 

"Yes, sir! Right away!" Martin doesn't know what he should do with his hands, so they sort of make a little useless gesture that doesn't mean anything. 

This, at least, gets the Head Archivist to huff in what might be called amusement. "Jonathan, please. Or Jon." 

"Jon," Martin repeats, liking the sound of it. "It's nice to meet you." 

There's no hint of a smile, but it's not as actively barbed when Jon says, "Go do your work." 

Martin gives an earnest nod and scurries off to go do just that. 

* * *

Jon is alone when he starts walking again. The pulse in his chest is stronger now — not enough for him to really be certain of the exact direction, but he keeps walking. 

The water, which had been on his left, now swirls around his ankles. 

He chances a glance back over his shoulder to find that it has always been like this, that there was no shore that he walked along. It has been swallowed by the encroaching lake while he was distracted. 

He keeps walking. 

The only clue he gets that he's approaching another phantom is the thin undercurrent of gold in the water. 

Jon stoops to free the thread from the waves, and wraps it around his hand as he approaches. 

This Martin doesn't look at him. Instead, he's turned away, studying his hands, a pose that Jon knows would normally accompany a cup of tea and a chastised expression. 

" _She came back for you._ " 

Jon doesn't answer. He just stands there with the thread coiled around his fingers in a tangled mess. 

Something gives it a gentle tug, trying to free it from his grasp, but Jon pulls back and keeps it close to his chest. 

" _Sasha did. After what happened to her, why would she ever want to come back?_ " 

_I don't think she had a choice,_ Jon wants to say, but he swallows it down. She thought she had one, but in the end, it was a false freedom he had promised her. 

" _Basira went and got her, because—_ " Martin laughs, again that sound that makes Jon's stomach twist in anguish— " _Because I am useless._ " 

This time, he can't help it. "You were doing what you could—" 

" _Do you really believe that, Jon?_ " Martin asks, and when he turns, the face is… _different_. Unfamiliar. It's not his Martin's face, and when he starts to speak again, the voice shifts. " _Do you really think that I was doing right by you?_ "

"Do _you_ believe you were?" 

The Not Martin considers this. " _No. I think I was just too afraid to do anything. And Peter Lukas gave me an out._ " 

"I don't believe that." Jon takes a step closer, though something inside of him protests at his proximity to this thing. "And besides, you're here now." 

" _I'm here now,_ " Not Martin repeats with a degree of finality. " _Sasha is waiting for you._ " 

He doesn't realize that he's shaking his head until it starts to make him dizzy — and each way he turns his face the Not Martin looks different. "Let her wait," Jon says, and curls his fingers into a fist around the golden thread. 

* * *

Martin stops worrying about the tea going cold when he finally finds Jon, because he finds Jon curled into a trembling ball in the back corner of his office. "Heavens above, _Jon_ ," Martin gasps, setting the cup down on the desk and rushing across the remaining space. 

Jon flinches from his touch at first, so Martin sits back on his heels across from him. Toe to toe, his back up against Jon's desk, his gaze lowered. "I'm sorry," Jon finally manages to gasp. "I just thought—" 

"It's fine, don't apologize." 

"Sasha—" he starts, then quickly stops. Jon gulps down several breaths before he continues. "Is she…?" 

"She's left, like you asked." 

Jon laughs at this, a sharp and cruel sound that feels more like it's torn from him than given voluntarily. "Right. Like I _asked_." 

Martin suppresses a wince. He hadn't been there — he had only heard. And he had hid, like a coward. 

"And Tim?" 

He had heard Tim crying softly in his office, but he had been focused on finding Jon. Some caretaker he is, unable to face a friend in grief. "Still here." 

"Is he alright?" The tiny kernel of hope in Jon's voice hurts more than it should. 

"I don't know," Martin admits. "Are you alright?" 

This seems to catch Jon off-guard, and finally he looks up at Martin. His skin is ashen, but his eyes are dry. There are red marks on his hands and cheeks, but Martin isn't certain if they're from the monster or from his own stubby nails. "Me? I'm fine—" 

"Jon, you're obviously not okay, I was being courteous—" 

Jon cuts him off with a sharp hand gesture. "I'm still here, I'm still… _me_. Comparatively, I'm _fine_." His tone brokers no further discussion. 

Martin wants to talk to him about it, wants to make sure there are no jagged edges that will get caught and tear when he least expects it. But he doesn't know how. This is a person who doesn't know how to be cared for, so all he can do is give the space and just show that he's around. "Alright…" 

"Alright." 

He heaves a sigh and pushes himself to his feet. "I made you tea, but it got cold when I was looking for you." 

Jon curls back up on himself, tucking his forehead against his knees. "It's fine." 

_It's not_ , he wants to stay. _It's not fine, and it's fine that you're not fine._

For an instant, he wishes that Sasha were here, so he could ask _her_ what had happened. 

But then he remembers the inhuman screams that echoed through the archives, and he remembers the set of her shoulders as she walked out the doors, and he regrets not being a better friend to all of them. 

* * *

Jon stumbles a step as the water rises to his mid-calf. He swears softly, but manages to catch himself. 

The water is still freezing, but at least the warmth in his chest helps. 

"Hang in there," he says, though he's not too certain if he's talking to himself or Martin. "I'm not giving up." 

The golden thread burns cheerfully in response, so he keeps walking. 

In fact, the thread seems to burn brighter as he walks — not enough for him to worry that it will harm him, but enough that he's almost ready for what he sees next. 

This Martin is on his hands and knees, shuddering and convulsing as if in great pain. Fog rolls of him like smoke, and there is a golden thread wrapped around his hand, bright as a fire.

Jon swallows down the cry that jumps to his tongue. "Martin?" 

" _It hurts, Jon. How do you—_ " He breaks off with a gasp and a small whimper. " _How do you deal with this all the time?_ " 

"I don't do it alone," Jon says, even though he's not too sure how true that is. "You've always been there for me." 

" _You never let me, though._ " This time, a sob catches in his throat. " _I know I'm just a nuisance to you._ " 

Jon drops to one knee at Martin's side and takes the branded hand in his own, holding it gently and slowly unwinding the thread from around it. "I thought that once," he admits, because it's no good to lie. "Not any more. I can't do this without you." 

" _I couldn't even save you. I couldn't save Sasha or Tim, or—_ " 

"I couldn't either." The thread stings his fingers, but he continues to pull it free without pause. "Sometimes it's not about saving other people. Sometimes they can't be saved, no matter how much you try." Finally, the string falls free, and Jon runs the tips of his fingers over the damaged skin. "But it's about never giving up on them, because one day they'll need you and you'll be there." 

Jon folds up the thread and tucks it away. 

* * *

Martin is trained in basic first aid. 

He can do small things — small cuts, or twisted ankles. He can do care required until someone more qualified can take over. Things he has had to learn while caring for his ailing mother. 

He does not know how to treat a burned hand. 

"Basira would be more qualified than me," Martin says as he gingerly wipes the wet cloth over the skin. It's starting to scab, finally, but his stomach won't stop churning at the sight of it. 

"I don't want Basira here," Jon says, and his voice is… distant. 

Martin wonders just how far he had to retreat to deal with the pain, and begins to wrap the new bandage around the palm. "You did a very good job of the initial bandaging, from what I can tell." He tries to keep his tone as light as his touch, but he's never been very skilled at either. "I guess that's just one of those things you know now, huh?" 

Jon doesn't respond. 

He finishes wrapping the bandage in silence, then cleans up the supplies and puts the spare bandages and poultices in a neat pile on Jon's desk. 

Still, the other man has not moved. 

So Martin kneels down in front of him. He uses a gentle touch to get Jon's attention, but the gaze is so far away that he's not certain if he can even reach Jon. "It's going to hurt for a very long time," he says, and he's not sure if he means just the hand or _all of it_. "And you're a stubborn person, and will refuse to tell anyone if it's bothering you. But please, Jon… let me know, alright? Even if it's… Even if it's just re-bandaging your hand. I'm here to help." 

Slowly, eventually, focus returns to those dark, forest-depth eyes and Jon nods. 

Martin forces a smile, though he knows it wobbles too much to be convincing. He pats Jon on the shoulder and rises to his feet. He gets ready to leave when Jon clears his throat.

"Keep an eye on Tim, would you?" Jon asks, his voice rough like he had inhaled a houseful of smoke. "He has it worse than me." 

His brow furrows, because Tim didn't have a single hint of the fire beyond the singed tips of his hair and a few scorch marks on his clothes. But still, he nods, because he has worked here long enough to know. "I will." 

Jon's _thank you_ is so faint that Martin thinks he might have imagined it. 

* * *

Jon can barely see his hand beneath the water, but he can feel the twinge of pain at the memory of how long it took to heal. In the end, he hadn't relied on Martin — not actively. 

But Martin always seemed to know, and was always there with a tea or a document or just a general helping hand. He always joked it was because he was taller and Jon insisted on trying to reach for things that were too far away, even when it clearly wasn't the case. 

In the end, Jon relied on Martin simply being there, until he wasn't. 

" _I'm sure you would have warned me, if you had really cared,_ " comes Martin's voice on the fog. 

Jon pushes himself upright, as the water reaches his knees. He spins around in a jagged circle, but he can't tell where the voice is coming from. 

" _There's no way you didn't know what he was. What I was to him._"

"I didn't—" Jon tries, though he had suspicions. Only some of which Elias confirmed, only the ones useful to his plans. "You can't think that I wanted this for you." 

" _You have a funny way of showing it._ " 

Jon turns again, but still there is no sign of this Martin. He's also lost track of which direction he was going, and the golden warmth in his chest chills as the fog rolls in thicker than before. 

" _But it's not like you knew anything about me, or my family. It's not like you cared to know._ " 

It was never something that had occurred to Jon to want to know. Only one person had known about his family, and that had been Georgie. (He doesn't count Elias, who didn't get to know that information through familiarity.) It was never something he wanted to talk about, and what he knew of Martin's past, he figured that Martin wouldn't want to either. 

" _Of course you never bothered to ask if I wanted to or not,_ " Martin sneers, and when Jon spins forward, there he is. 

Gold refracts off the fog that hangs around Martin like a mantle, but Jon can't find the source of it. He doesn't know where to pluck to unravel the illusion. 

" _Being in the Lonely came naturally, and when I finally figured out why… Well, it felt like a relief. At least I had somewhere I belonged, because it sure was not the Archives._ " 

"Martin, that's a lie and you know it." Jon reaches for him, not certain what he means to do, but Martin catches onto his wrist before he can finish the motion. "You look me in the eye and tell me that you did not belong there. You are one of my assistants. You are the only one left, now." He twists his hand to grasp Martin's forearm and can feel the compulsion in his words. "Try and lie to me," he says, and he can feel Martin squirm beneath his grasp, and _there_ it is, the end of the thread. 

He grabs it. 

* * *

"Knock knock?" 

Martin jumps in his seat, flinging the papers one way and his pen another. "I-I'm sorry," he stammers, launching to his feet and staring wide-eyed at the man in the doorway. No, not the doorway, inside his office, the door closed. "I didn't hear you come in?" 

The man is in a well-dressed suit, a white beard hiding a ghostly pale face. He has a hat tucked beneath one arm and a kind smile already on his lips. "I didn't mean to frighten you, Son. My apologies." 

For some reason, Martin's stomach gives an uneasy lurch at the term 'son'. "N-no worries. Um. Have a seat?" He gestures to the chair on the other side of his desk. "Are you here to make a statement?" 

"Not in the way that you're thinking." He smiles like this is some kind of secret joke that Martin isn't aware of. 

"Then… How can I help you?" Martin doesn't want to sit down yet, but he feels rude towering over the old man. So he busies himself retrieving his papers and pen. 

When he looks back at his desk, there is an unfurled oilskin holding several official looking papers. Slowly, Martin turns his confused gaze up to the old man. 

"My name is Peter Lukas," the man says, and a small piece of realization slides into place in Martin's head. 

"You're from my mother's side of the family…" And, then, a beat later, his stomach lurches in a completely opposite direction with a horrible thought. "Is she okay? I-is she—" 

"Still alive, yes, as far as I'm aware. I haven't spoken to her recently… She's more of a distant cousin or somewhere along those lines." He waves a hand to dismiss the confusion. "I am here for you, though." 

Martin gives a single bark of laughter. "For me? Why?" 

Peter tilts his head a degree, thinking. "Well, I was hoping to be able to make you my inheritor." 

It's silent for a very long moment before Martin laughs again, this time a complete and full-body take over as he collapses back into his chair. "You must be joking!" 

"I think you would find that I am quite serious," he says, pushing the papers closer across the desk. "I have no children of my own, and any of my siblings' offspring, well…" Again, another dismissive gesture. "I see a lot of myself in you." Again, a smile like they're sharing an inside joke. 

Martin falls quiet, wiping away a stray tear and attempting to catch his breath. "I—" 

"You can look it all over, of course." Peter pats the papers and gives them one final nudge. "I'll be staying here for a bit. I'm an old friend of Elias’, back when he was still a regular Institute employee." He starts to rise at the same time the door to Martin's office swings open and Jon, head down and nose buried in a book, steps in. 

Martin straightens up and blushes despite himself, because he's always embarrassed whenever Jon walks into his office. 

"Listen, Martin, I'm going to need you to follow up on— Oh." Jon's eyes settle on Peter, and Martin watches as his posture tenses immediately. "Pardon," he says in a way that doesn't sound at all apologetic. 

Peter glances from Jon to Martin, then back to Jon. His smile shifts into something that resembles one that Martin has seen on Elias on occasion. "Well. This should be interesting," he says, more to himself. He dons his cap and nods once to Martin before stepping into the hall. 

Jon glares at his retreating form then glares at Martin. He looks like he wants to say something, and Martin prepares himself for whatever ridicule will come his way. 

In the end, Jon deflates and shakes his head. "Never mind," he says, though he didn't say anything. He pointedly ignores the papers on the desk as he places his book down on top of them. "I need details on this, if you please." 

He leaves without waiting to see if Martin understood, and instead, Martin is left sitting there baffled and conflicted and needing a cup of tea. 

* * *

It is getting harder to walk. 

The water is climbing up his thighs, and it clings to him with each step. Like dead weight dragging behind him. 

Still he keeps on walking. 

The thick air settles into his lungs and makes it difficult to breathe. Each inhale is a wad of wet cotton being shoved down his throat, and he finds himself choking on the exhale. 

When he sees the golden thread beneath the water, his chest constricts with fear. 

There is no Martin here. There is no voice carried to him on the wind. 

Jon tries to dislodge the string with his foot, digging his toes into the silt in an attempt to kick it free. 

He waits until the dirt settles and he can get a better idea of where the thread is. 

Then, with one final gulp of breath, Jon ducks beneath the surface of the water. 

* * *

Martin can't stop shaking as he sits with his head between his knees and his boots scuffing dirt into the floor of the Archives. 

_If Jon were here,_ he thinks, and a strained hitch of laughter crawls out of his closing throat, _he would be so mad at this mess._ The laugh turns to a sob that he tries to stifle behind his hands. 

He's not supposed to be here, but honestly, it's fine. It has to be fine, because no one is here, it's just him! Just him and a coffin and the dirt and the fog, and really, that means it's okay. If the fog is here, then he can be here, and besides. Besides. 

There is no way that anyone can survive this. 

Not even Jon. Not after three days. 

Martin hugs his legs to his chest and buries his face in his knees and tries to breathe. Tries to breathe. Tries to— tries to— he _tries_ — 

He wheezes, but still no air comes into his lungs. Fog blocks his nose and lines his throat and it feels like his tongue is three sizes too big for his face and his hands too small as he clutches at his chest, because there is a weight there, and if only he was strong enough — if only his hands were actually there and didn't tremble so much and _why is there so much fog_ , he can't even see his hands — but there is a weight there and he can't. He can't. 

"Jon, _please_ ," he finally gasps, and that's enough, it seems, because he's crying now but at least he can breathe. "You have to come back," he sobs into his knees, because even when he's alone and there's no one here but him and the fog and the coffin, he feels like he can't say those words aloud. They have to be a secret. His heart is breaking but it has to be a secret and—

And the coffin moves. 

Martin thinks he might be sick, but he doesn't know if it's from crying or from hope or from the idea that it's just his imagination. 

The lid rattles, and from across the Archives, Martin can hear frantic footsteps approaching. 

The fog rolls in thick and heavy as Martin tries to hold on long enough to see, sobbing softly _please, Jon, please come back_ before he's ripped away as Basira rounds the corner and the lid falls free. 

* * *

Jon surfaces with a gasp, the thread in his hand. He stands there, shivering, as the water sloshes around his thighs. 

It hadn't been that deep, and yet— 

He shoves his sodden hair out of his face and puts the thread away. He resumes walking. Or perhaps wading is a better term. 

He continues his trip through the Lonely. 

It is so quiet. Even the splashing of his movement is muted by the fog. 

Jon takes a breath and cups his hands around his mouth. "Martin?" he calls, because at least hearing his own voice is a little comfort. "Martin, where are you?" 

He almost regrets the question as he sees the first pinprick of gold floating in the fog. There is something wrong about its placement, and as he gets closer, the shape of it starts to become clear. 

This Martin, thankfully not his Martin, stands with a slack face, showing no signs of having heard his name. One eye stares out blindly over Jon's shoulder, the same milky gray as the fog surrounding them to the point where Jon almost can't even tell there is an eye there. 

The other is a bright golden thread, coiled and knotted together and shoved into the socket. 

A dry, rasping sound leaves Jon as he reaches up to cup Martin's face with his hands. "Oh, Martin… what has this place done to you?" 

" _No more than you would have done to me,_ " this Martin says, and Jon jumps back in surprise at the voice. 

"I wouldn't—" he tries, but can't force the words out. 

" _Liar,_ " Martin says, not unkindly, but resigned. " _Wouldn't you have? If I had said yes, would you have gone first or waited until I blinded myself before you backed out?_ " 

"I wouldn't have, not to you." This Jon says with confidence. "Not with you, Martin. If it means putting it all behind me, I—" 

Martin's expression shifts a degree, his brows furrowing and the corners of his mouth pinching. He tilts his face into Jon's burned palm, and nuzzles it with a degree of intimacy that makes Jon ache. 

But he doesn't close his eyes, and never once does his gaze focus on Jon. 

" _What a pair we would have made,_ " Martin says. " _Do you have the courage to do it now?_ " 

Jon cards his fingers through Martin's hair, knowing that this is not his Martin, but needing to feel it anyway. It feels like passing his hand through seafoam. "This will hurt." 

Martin's shoulders give a single half-hearted shrug. " _What is one more pain at your hands, Jon?_ " 

He hates that he has no valid counter argument as he plucks the golden knot free. 

Martin sighs into Jon's palm and unravels into mist. 

In his place is a folded piece of paper floating on the water as it reaches his hips. 

Jon recognizes the Institute's letterhead as he plucks it free. Within is a short note in Sasha's tight and familiar hand, the golden thread woven in and out of the parchment like ink. 

_Our solution might no longer be viable._  
_We'll be back soon. - S_

"Oh," he says softly. 

He folds the letter back up and tucks it into his waistcoat's pocket. 

* * *

Peter is furious. 

He paces in a tight line in the cramped confines of Martin's office. "Do you just not take this seriously?" 

Martin stares at the letter open on his desk. He doesn't answer, because he reads the two sentences over and over again. 

"Well?" Peter demands, slamming his hand onto the desk, and for a brief, horrifying instant they're floating in the middle of the Lonely and Martin is alone and he has no way to fight back before the scene returns. "Do you want for the Watcher's plan to take hold?" 

"I don't…" 

"You don't what, take it seriously? Because I think that much is evident." He waves a frustrated hand at the paper before whirling back around on his heels. "Honestly, I've been too lenient with you. All of you." 

Martin doesn't answer. 

Peter doesn't seem to notice anyway. "If she brings back the Archivist, then all of this is for nothing. All of our hard work over the last few months has been for _nothing_ , do you understand?" 

Martin looks up and sees Peter glaring down at him, beard bristling and pale eyes like twin stars. The effect is more like looking at a ghost than at a man, and he wonders just _how_ he did actually manage to take this seriously for so long. "If she brings back Jon, then you still have a chance, don't you?" 

"I highly doubt that Elias will just let his Archivist remain broken. He's worked too hard on making the perfect creature." He runs a hand over his beard, as if to calm the startled hairs, and the thought of it almost makes Martin laugh. 

"Then it works in our favor if I help get him back." 

Peter scoffs and tosses his hand in the air. "I thought you were above such weaknesses. I was really hoping that you'd be over that silly crush of yours by now, after seeing how little he cares." 

Martin goes cold for only a moment before the anger boils over. "Shows what you know," he mutters. "And if that's all you thought it was going to take, you're _sorely_ mistaken." He cuts himself off before he can start going into some impassioned speech about the good in Jon, the bits and pieces that he's seen over four years. The gradual warmth, even as Martin had to force himself to be colder. 

It's stupid, really, how much he still loves Jon, despite everything. 

If either one of them were just more competent as people, not as tools of powerful men, then perhaps it wouldn't have to end like this. 

Martin figures if he can throw one giant wrench and a middle finger into their plans, well, perhaps it won't be so bad after all. 

* * *

He finds his Martin as the water reaches his waist and an icy undercurrent snakes around his ankles. The golden threads in his chest wind themselves together to form a cord and he grips it tight over the treacherous last few meters. 

"Martin!" he calls, desperate for confirmation that he made it in time. "Martin!" 

Slowly, Martin's head lifts and their gazes meet. Recognition comes in bits and pieces, before a heartbreaking smile finally graces his lips. "Jon." 

He crashes into Martin as he loses his footing. But at that point it doesn't matter. He wraps his arms around the other man and pulls himself in. "You're here." 

There's the slightest pause before Martin's hand lands between his shoulders. "You came." 

"Of course I did. I wouldn't leave without you." 

Martin sighs, and Jon can feel the puff of fog against his ear instead of a warm breath. "I can't," he says, no emotion to the words. 

Jon steps back, gripping Martin's forearms as he peers up at him. "What do you mean you can't." It's not even a question, because as far as he's concerned, they've made it through the worst part of this place. They're together now, and from here it's easy. 

"I've given too much of myself to the Lonely. Sasha warned me this would happen." He lifts his hand to press it to Jon's chest, over the frantically beating heart of golden light. "But you're back. That tether will take you out of here." 

Jon laughs. 

He can't help it, really. 

It catches both of them by surprise, but now that he's started, he can't stop. 

"Don't be _daft_ , Martin," he says, and delights in the fondness he's allowed to use. "I'm not leaving here without you." 

"I _can't_ leave, Jon. This is a place of my own making. It's as much me as—… as…" He makes a vague gesture before pointing to the golden light. "As much as that is you." 

"Martin." Jon covers Martin's hand with one of his own, the other lighting on Martin's cheek. "We are our own people, but so much of who I want to be is with you." 

Something flickers in Martin's gaze. His lips press together, and for a moment, he looks like he's about to cry. "Everyone has fought so hard to make sure you came back. I'm not going to be the reason that you don't." 

Jon takes Martin's hand and presses it over the golden light, and the light spills through between their joined fingers. "You are _my_ reason," he says, before leaning up on his toes to kiss Martin. 

His skin is cold, and the taste of salt clings to him. But he returns the kiss eagerly, and Jon can feel the warmth spreading beneath his lips. 

When he opens his eyes, there is the faintest smile gracing Martin's face, the first real one in what feels like too long. Jon kisses him again, because he can't help it.

The water starts to recede, and before long, the shore becomes visible once more. 

Jon takes Martin's hand in his, their fingers woven together. He stares up into Martin's eyes, relieved to see clarity and focus there. "I won't leave you." 

Martin tucks a strand of loose hair behind Jon's ear. "I know." 

He knows that there will be powerful forces waiting for them, ready to tear into the small bubble of peace they've managed to find. But, with Martin's hand in his, the possibility of an unknown future beyond that doesn't seem as terrifying. 

"Let's go home," Jon says, and they begin to walk. 

**Author's Note:**

> (read [_tiny cracks of light_ chapter sixteen](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24987067/chapters/62354539))


End file.
